(another poem) How lonely a view
(This poem is kind of from the point of view of a tree but also of a viewer. I wrote this a couple of years ago when I saw that all the trees in the park outside my window had been suddenly cut down.)
How lonely a view,
does such a pale morning bring,
that such shapes of nought,
came to the fro,
that all that’s lost,
is,
and no amount of night,
no amount of dreaming,
shall bring back the view,
that just one yesterday’s long was mine,
and me thought mine for ever long as I was here,
never would I thought those whispers would cease,
never would I thought the wind would go bare,
to rush and roam,
with no companion to dance along side,
where are the winter twigs that would sway and foam,
like so many bubbles glittering under the ocean’s view at noontide?
Where is that pearly mist that so oft greeted me,
reminded me of home?
Tell me, where now shall I let my eyes to roam?
Where none now is hidden, no mystery to solve?
What a barren view, a lack lustre hearth,
and for what?
Such a wonton death doesn’t suit the majesty of those that danced beside the wind.
Cut like empty logs. Hollow. Devoid of meaning.
But their whispers danced me to sleep and the sounds of their comrades, the wakeful robin roused the morning.
How now shall I wake, but to the distant mourning?
That one of silence.
No rustle will be heard to now,
no helpful bird calling,
I’m all awake now,
all sour with this barren view,
such a ponderous sight now,
all heavy with nothing,
all heavy with what was once there,
with what was once here,
but now I wake,
and the horrid forms of night,
that only just but intimated such a thought,
have shapened into nought.
I am alone now.
No more waving from my greenest of trees.
No more breathing in their calls of sweeting.
I am alone, with such a lonely view,
one stout captain, with no such crew.
https://cecanneryauthorblog.wordpress...
How lonely a view,
does such a pale morning bring,
that such shapes of nought,
came to the fro,
that all that’s lost,
is,
and no amount of night,
no amount of dreaming,
shall bring back the view,
that just one yesterday’s long was mine,
and me thought mine for ever long as I was here,
never would I thought those whispers would cease,
never would I thought the wind would go bare,
to rush and roam,
with no companion to dance along side,
where are the winter twigs that would sway and foam,
like so many bubbles glittering under the ocean’s view at noontide?
Where is that pearly mist that so oft greeted me,
reminded me of home?
Tell me, where now shall I let my eyes to roam?
Where none now is hidden, no mystery to solve?
What a barren view, a lack lustre hearth,
and for what?
Such a wonton death doesn’t suit the majesty of those that danced beside the wind.
Cut like empty logs. Hollow. Devoid of meaning.
But their whispers danced me to sleep and the sounds of their comrades, the wakeful robin roused the morning.
How now shall I wake, but to the distant mourning?
That one of silence.
No rustle will be heard to now,
no helpful bird calling,
I’m all awake now,
all sour with this barren view,
such a ponderous sight now,
all heavy with nothing,
all heavy with what was once there,
with what was once here,
but now I wake,
and the horrid forms of night,
that only just but intimated such a thought,
have shapened into nought.
I am alone now.
No more waving from my greenest of trees.
No more breathing in their calls of sweeting.
I am alone, with such a lonely view,
one stout captain, with no such crew.
https://cecanneryauthorblog.wordpress...
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message 1:
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L.
(new)
Jan 07, 2021 04:13PM
Quite a lovely poem!
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L. wrote: "Quite a lovely poem!"Thank you!
I'm getting a very Poe-like feeling from this one. Not structurally, but regarding the imagery and mood.
Aino wrote: "I'm getting a very Poe-like feeling from this one. Not structurally, but regarding the imagery and mood."Hmm. I've always thought of Poe as kind of dark and dramatic. And I suppose, now that I think about it, this is also a bit dark and dramatic.
Interesting comment. I think I'll have to read more Poe. I haven't any in a long while.
I think it's this part especially, and that it resembles a narrative poem: but now I wake,
and the horrid forms of night,
that only just but intimated such a thought,
have shapened into nought.
But like I said, the form is very different if you think about the poem as a whole as Poe played with rhymes a lot more.
